From A Wind is Rising - He brought the truck to a stop on the windward side of the pipe. It was blowing 113 miles an hour. Clayton slid out of the truck carrying several lengths of pipe, some patches, a blowtorch and a bag of tools. They were all tied to him and he was secured to the Brute by a strong nylon rope. Outside the wind was deafening. It thundered and roared like breaking surf. He adjusted his mask for more oxygen and went to work. Two hours later he had completed a fifteen minute repair job. His clothing was shredded and his air extractor was completely clogged with dust. He climbed back into the Brute, sealed the port, and lay on the floor, resting. The truck was starting to tremble in the wind gusts. Clayton ignored it. “Hello? Hello?” Nerishev called over the radio. Wearily, Clayton climbed back into the driver’s seat and acknowledged. “Hurry back now, Clayton! No time to rest. The wind is up to 138! I think a storm is coming!” A storm on Carella was something Clayton didn’t even want to think about. They had experienced only one in eight months. During it the winds had gone over 160 miles per hour. He nosed the truck around and started back, driving directly into the wind. At full throttle he found he was making very little progress. Three miles an hour was all the heavy diesel would do against the pressure of a 138-mile wind. He stared ahead through the slit window. The wind, outlined by long streamers of dust and sand, seemed to be coming straight at him, funneled out of an infinitely wid sky to the tiny point of his window. Windborne rocks sailed at him, grew large, immense, and shattered against his window. He couldn’t stop himself from ducking each time one came. The heavy engine was beginning to labor and miss. “Oh, baby,” Clayton breathed, “ don’t quit now. Not now. Get Papa home. Then quit. Please!” He figured he was about ten miles from the station which lay directly upwind. He heard a sound like an avalanche plummeting down the mountainside. It was made by a boulder the size of a house. Too big for the wind to lift , it was rolling at him from windward, digging a furrow in the rocky ground as it came.